The Winter Games
by RenlysRainbowCloak
Summary: Arya/Gendry AU- The Winter Games has come to Westeros and two competitors are selected per kingdom to fight to the death as penance for the Targaryen rebellions.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

**Arya**

Arya groaned as the curtains in her bedroom opened, letting in the light. It was the morning of Selection and that meant three gruelling hours of hair, make-up and getting dressed. She hated Selection, and the entire Winter Games. She'd only been to one other in her life, but that didn't make it any less awful. Every winter, a new round of The Games was decreed. It had been summer so long that she'd almost forgotten about them, _almost_. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep when she heard Septa Mordane approaching.

"Come on Arya, it's time to get out of bed!" the Septa said fiercely, pulling back the blankets surrounding the tired girl. Arya groaned again and turned over. Septa Mordane _tisked_ disapprovingly. "Your sister has been awake for an hour already and your brothers too. Do you really want to go to Selection looking like something the wolves dragged in?"

"If I'm not selected no one will care what I look like," Arya argued half-heartedly. It was the same thing every winter. Every child between the ages 12 and 17 across the Seven Kingdoms put on their best clothing and filed into the courtyards of their ruling lords. For the Northerners this meant Winterfell, Arya's home.

The last time, only Jon and Robb were of age, and Arya remembered being so scared for Jon who wasn't allowed to be scared for himself because that was _weak_. And Starks, even Stark bastards, weren't weak. There had been a long gap between those games, and these upcoming ones, but her father had been saying all year that "winter is coming", and he was right. The first flake of snow fell last month, and since then, there had been a flurry of activity throughout the Seven Kingdoms to prepare for The Winter Games. This time around, Arya and Sansa were the only two in Winterfell who qualified; Bran too young and Robb just too old to enter. Jon, over at The Wall, was still 17 and was entered there.

Arya wasn't too worried about what would happen if she was selected. It was customary that the richest houses provided the best training for their children and the Stark's had been well looked after by Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms. Since she could walk Arya had been trained with sword, bow and dagger. Albeit not as extensively as her brothers but she felt confident enough to wield a blade in self-defence.

"Are you going to stand around all day or are you going to get ready?" Septa Mordane's voice rang in her ears, snapping her out of her daydreams. She got out of bed and made her way into the bathroom where a steaming hot bath had already been drawn.

"Call me when you're finished so we can get started on your gowns." The Septa looked her up and down before shaking her head in slight disappointment and Arya swore that she could hear "Sure not as pretty as her sister" being muttered under her breath.

Oh yes, her perfect, pretty, proper sister, Sansa. Sansa, who preferred needlework to swordplay and who always wrinkled her nose when Arya would join the boys in during their training. Everyone _loved_ Sansa. Even Joffrey, the prince, had taken a liking to her when he and his family came to visit Winterfell last year. Sansa was the epitome of the world _ladylike_, while Arya was often mistaken for a boy.

Oh well, at least she would fend better in the Winter Games than Sansa ever would. She didn't feel bad for thinking this because her sister would never get chosen, she was too lucky for that.

All of her bath musings had made the water grow cold. Arya shouted for Septa Mordane and the two of them began the arduous process of lacing the small girl into a dress of pale blue-grey silk, a shade lighter than her eyes. Arya examined her reflection in the mirror with obvious disgust. The dress had blue roses trimming the bust and sleeves that reached the floor. Very Sansa but not at all becoming of Arya Stark,

"Why with that on you almost look like half a lady!" The Septa beamed proudly but she was met with nothing but a scowl. "Fine then but don't get anything on it at breakfast and we've still got to do your hair..."

With her hair pilled in an elaborate style on top of her head and a final once over from Septa Mordane, Arya was finally allowed to leave her bedchamber and go to the main hall for breakfast. Her long sleeves caught in her delicate slippers and caused her a lot of trouble getting anywhere but she managed to make her way downstairs into the hall only tripping twice.

She was the last of the Starks to arrive at breakfast. Everyone else was there, eating in silence, a contrast from the usually lively meals they shared. Even though no one else was eating she decided that she better get some nourishment; it was going to be a long day. She heard Sansa make a disgusted noise as she stuffed a whole piece of toast into her mouth.

"Wha?" she asked sarcastically, her speech muffled by the toast.

"You could at least try to act like a lady" Sansa said snippily

"Jus 'cos you're so upigh…" she swallowed, "Just 'cos you're so uptight doesn't mean I have to be." Sansa made another disgusted face as she watched her younger sister drag a long sleeve across the table to reach for a goblet.

"Haven't our lessons taught you anything? You don't drag your arms on the table your entire movements should be fluid, like you're gliding! Gods Arya, if you're selected today the Gamekeepers are going to have their work cut out for them prepping you for interviews."

"Oh and of course you've got _nothing_ to worry about because you're so bloody perfect!" Arya replied in a heated tone "Well I hate to break it to you dear sister but you're going to have to _kill_ if you get picked, think you can do that?"

A blush crept up Sansa's pretty face as she half-shouted: "You know I won't get picked! Prince Joffrey told me himself that his mother wouldn't let anything hurt me and she controls Selection you know! I'm to be Joff's queen so I shall not be harmed!"

At the increase of volume from the normally docile Sansa, their father rose from the other end of the long table.

"Girls, calm down," he said sternly, in the same way he talks to the wolves, "I know tensions are running high, but today is a stressful day, for all of us. We Starks have to set an example for the rest of the district and you feuding won't be helping the morale of Winterfell in the least"

Both of them looked down at their plates, ashamed. Satisfied, Ned Stark started walking towards the front hall, and said "Good, we'd better get a move on. The bells will ring soon and we want to get their early, beat the crowds." As soon as Arya was out of his line of sight, she turned and stuck her tongue out at Sansa, and ran out of the room to fetch her fur cape as her sister shrieked "Arya!" and Robb just laughed.

The air outside was crisp and cold and Arya was praying for the Selection business to be over as soon as possible so she could get back to the warm walls of Winterfell. Looking around she saw other children and adults huddled in blankets and cloaks hurrying through the gates into the courtyard of Winterfell. The candidates for Selection were always told to form neat, straight lines in rows of sixteen whereas parents and other relatives had to wait around the perimeter. The names of every candidate were inscribed neatly on a piece of parchment that was then put into a large, elaborate glass vase and mixed around. There were thousands of names in there and were to be only two unlucky people chosen to participate in The Winter Games.

It was Robb's duty, as he was next in line to be Lord of Winterfell, and has just come of age, to pick and announce the names. He walked to the podium, his head held high, but his walk was stiff, as though he was tempted to turn around and run. Arya knew how he felt, it was what every person in the citadel was feeling, the desire to escape, but with no idea how.

Robb stood on the makeshift stage, a glass vase filled with scraps of parchment beside him. In other kingdoms, there were stages for the single purpose of Selection, but Winterfell didn't celebrate the games as some of the more southern kingdoms did. Instead they looked upon it with dread and quiet loathing.

Arya resisted the urge to fidget with her dress or to move some stray strands of hair out of her face because she knew, at that moment, they were being projected all over the Seven Kingdoms; the alchemists' birds doing their work.

When the games were first implemented after the fall of the Targaryens, a method for all to view the Winter Games was invented. Special birds, forged by the alchemists, took in what was happening in one place and displayed it in another. In the town square in each of the kingdoms, the Winterfell Selection was being broadcasted for all to see. This would continue for the entire course of the games, as every minute of the prep and what went on in the arena was captured by the birds.

Robb cleared his throat nervously on stage and started Selection.

"Hello, attention everyone, today we have gathered for Selection, a sacred tradition throughout the Seven Kingdoms to commemorate the victory of King Robert over the Targaryens and to celebrate the start of a new winter. I will draw two names, one at a time, from the bowl, and once your name is called, you must come to the front immediately. If you try to resist, you will be brought by force."

He paused for a moment, as though to prepare himself, and then continued.

"All right then, one of young adults who will be representing Winterfell at the Winter Games this year is…"

He drew his hand into the bowl and pulled out a piece of parchment, and as he read it out, a look of horror crossed over his face, but he had already read it and there was nothing he could do.

"Sansa Stark"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**Sansa**

"Sansa Stark."

Her head was reeling. She tried to grab onto something to stabilize herself but there was nothing there. It was as if she was completely and utterly alone. She heard her name again.

"Sansa Stark."

It was Robb who was calling it. Robb who used to tease her about having a crush on Theon when they were children, not the Robb who would send her to her death by calling her name in Selection. Without warning, there was a strong hand against her back, pushing her towards the stage. She fumbled with her first few steps before she remembered the birds broadcasting her every move across the Seven Kingdoms. _You are a lady!_ Sansa scolded herself, still horror-struck, but she managed the remaining steps to the foot of the stage on her own. Looking up she met her brother's gaze and though his face revealed no hint of emotion, his eyes were riddled with panic.

"C-Congratulations Sansa, you have been selected to represent House Stark in The Winter Games," he said, helping her onto the stage and shaking her hand like he'd rehearsed with their father for some other competitor. Not Sansa.

"It is the greatest of honours," she replied hollowly curtseying as she'd been told, refusing to look away from his eyes into the crowd. He led her into the corner of the stage before returning to the vase to choose her companion from the North.

Sansa was shaking so badly she didn't even hear him say it.

**Arya**

Arya couldn't believe it. Sansa! _Sansa_ was going into the games, and was probably going to never emerge from them. Suddenly she regretted all the times she'd been mean to her sister; splashing mud on her dresses and throwing food at her. Sansa had been selected, oh gods, Sansa was going to die! She was barely listening to the second name being called, but was jolted out of her reverie as she heard what was being said.

"Arya Stark" echoed over the square, Rob's voice hitching at the end. There was absolute silence as every person in the square turned towards her. It was unheard of; two members of the same family being selected for one round of The Games and a noble family at that!

She felt her legs move forward towards the stage, as though of their own accord. She couldn't see straight, every face she passed was blurred and she felt dizzy but somehow she made it to the stage. Robb's eyes were glassy as he looked into hers and said "Congratulations Arya, you have been selected to represent House Stark in The Winter Games"

"It is the greatest of honours" Arya said with a bow, too late realizing she was supposed to have done a curtsey, like a proper lady. _Well, I won't be a proper lady when I'm forced to shoot, stab and kill others in the arena_, she thought bitterly.

The girls were escorted to the bell tower, where their visitors would meet them to deliver their goodbyes.

Their first visitor was their father. He came in quickly, with a worried expression on his face. He crouched down in front of his only daughters and put a hand on one of Arya's shoulders, the other on Sansa's.

"Girls, I know what happened out there was no coincidence. Someone is targeting us, and I don't know why. I will be heading to King's Landing too, but I cannot travel with you. I'll meet with King Robbert and try to get you out of these games. Until then, you must stay strong. You are Starks, and you are brave, and I believe in you. Remember, you are sisters, and you must stick together, and keep each other safe. Protect each other, and trust no one else. You are entering a dangerous place, and family is all you can rely on," he took a deep breath, kissed both of their foreheads and whispered "Good luck girls, Winter is coming"

Next came Robb, his hair disheveled and tears in his eyes. He hugged Sansa tightly and Arya could hear her sobs muffled against his shirt as her sister finally lost control.

"I don't know what happened but I swear to the Old Gods and the New that I will find out!" He promised angrily, Sansa still crying on his shoulder. "If Father can't get you out of The Games, I'll kill Queen Cersei myself to bring you back home!"

His last promise only upset Sansa more and the three of them spent their remaining time without speaking, Robb stroking Sansa's long, auburn hair. When it was his turn to leave Robb hugged both of his sister's again.

"You've got to win girls," he whispered, his voice breaking at the end, "You've just got to."

He left the room quickly and sent in their remaining siblings and their mother, all of whom were crying. Tearful hugs and kisses from Rickon, Bran and Catelyn were showered upon the two Competitors. It was only Arya who did not shed a single tear during the heart wrenching goodbyes from her family. For some reason, she couldn't. It was as if she was numb to all feeling because one thought kept racing through her head:

Even if she won The Games, would her family forgive her for letting Sansa die?

That afternoon they boarded the carriage with Septa Mordane, in charge of looking after the sisters on their voyage, and stared at their laps in silence as their journey towards King's Landing and perpetual death commenced. There was a projector in the carriage, an invention of the alchemist's no doubt, so they were able to get a look at some of their competition. Some of the Kingdoms had not yet selected their representatives.

They watched as the handsome Loras Tyrell and some other blond boy were selected from Highgarden, a pair of twins selected from Greywater Watch, (guess it seemed they weren't the only sibling duo), and most surprising of all: Prince Joffrey who was first in line for the Iron Throne, get selected along with Sandor Clegane; an older boy with a mutilated face and a mountain of a body. Arya shivered just looking at the pair of them, one scrawny with an evil smirk on his weak little face, the other powerful, displaying no emotion throughout the entire Selection.

"Gods look at that brute," Arya swore nudging her sister in the ribs in an attempt to diffuse the tension. Sansa smiled for a second but it did not reach her eyes before she turned her head to look out the window. Arya sighed. She and Sansa were as different as night and day but their father was right; they needed each other. Arya took a deep breath. "It's going to be alright Sansa," she said patting her sister's hand a little awkwardly. She wasn't particularly good at the comforting thing. This time when Sansa smiled, she actually looked at her younger sister.

"Thanks Arya," she replied, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. The two girls spent the remainder of the ride in a comfortable silence, only breaking it for Sansa to chime in about how beautiful Loras Tyrell was and Arya to make a rude comment about the other competitors.

**Renly**

"How could you?" shouted Renly Baratheon, pushing open the double doors to the Queen's Quarters so hard that they nearly slammed off the walls, and storming into her room.

"Why Renly, what a pleasant surprise," said Cersei, who was resting by the window, completely unfazed by his dramatic entrance, "It's always a pleasure to speak with my husband's beloved brother but do be a dear and knock next time."

"I don't know what you're playing at, but you'd better find some way to undo it" said Renly, his voice shaking, as he stood a few feet away from Cersei, with his feet apart as though preparing for battle

"I have no idea what you mean" she said with a casual shrug of her shoulders and flick of her long blonde hair.

"So then you have no explanation for this?" Renly snapped angrily, striding over to the window and pointing at the massive projection which was visible from everywhere in the kingdom, currently replaying the Selection in Highgarden.

"Oh yes, it was such a shame about Ser Loras. I heard he was developing into such a promising knight and so handsome too! He had many young ladies vying for his attention…some men too, If the rumors are to be believed." she glanced at the her brother-in-law raising an arched eyebrow at him.

"It _was_ you. I knew it. But how? How did you know?"

"Please," she replied frankly, all formalities dropped, "You were as subtle as a pair of dogs, making eyes at each other constantly. I know it seemed fun, but you were wasting your time. You need to find a wife, one who can benefit the kingdom. His sister Maergery, perhaps?"

"Never. I will never marry."

"You will marry for the sake of the kingdom. You should be doing everything in your power to support the king, he's your brother after all. Running a kingdom is a team effort, Renly, and you haven't been doing your share. To date, your performance has been subpar," Cersei took a step towards him and looked straight into his Baratheon-blue eyes, "You will marry, or I will make life very difficult for your precious Loras. I can promise you that. If you want to keep him safe, no," she smirked, "If you want to keep him _alive_, you shall marry whichever woman I put forth. Do we have an understanding?"

Renly stared at her for a moment, shocked. "Fine" he finally consented.

"You will also take part in the Games, as Joffrey's stylist. I'll even give you a free reign with his outfit, except, no rainbows," she said, looking down at his cape with derision. He agreed to that as well.

They stayed watching the screen for a moment, Cersei silently revelling in her success, Renly trying to comprehend all that had happened in the past few moments.

"Do you like the other selected competitor from Highgarden?" Cersei asked suddenly, pointing to the screen, her voice suddenly warm as melted butter.

"The child? Your cousin I believe? Lancel, was it? He can't be more than twelve. What of him?"

"You told your love to find a little boy. I just thought I'd help him along," she then flipped her golden hair over her shoulder and glided out of the room, and called out, without turning back, "You can show yourself out."


	3. Chapter 3

**Gendry**

Working in the forge all morning had left the apprentice smith hot and eager to leave. He wouldn't have much of a respite though, Flea Bottom would be watching the Winterfell Selection later in the afternoon before their own which would happen around twilight. This was Gendry's last year as an eligible participant in The Winter Games and he was counting on another winter free from putting his life on the line for the amusement of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Done so soon eh, boy?" the Master of the forge asked mockingly, "I 'aint payin' you to leave early!"

_You hardly pay me at all_, thought Gendry but instead he said: "I have Selection," knowing that that would suffice.

The Master laughed heartily clapping the young man on the shoulder, "Bloody hell boy, with your strength I'd have picked you off as 18. Maybe you should skip this year."

That was not a thought that had escaped Gendry's mind. He'd been living on his own for three years now and sometimes he fantasized about packing up and leaving Flea Bottom. His mother had died from an illness when he was 14 and he had never known his father. According to his mother though, he looked just like him. When he wasn't working, Gendry had spent most of his early childhood looking for a man with his same charcoal black hair and piercing blue eyes praying that he would find this man one day and be reunited with his father. He had given up on that façade long ago and had come to accept the hard truth: His dad had abandoned him long ago and did not give a shit about the son he left behind. Days when this notion was too much to bear were the ones that had Gendry most tempted to run. He knew he wouldn't make it though, not with the City Watch on every corner of the high, brick walls surrounding Flea Bottom. He would be shot.

"You know the City Watch'd get me and then who would make your swords?" Gendry responded, forcing a smile "I'm the best smith in the city."

"You're only an apprentice boy so don't get too full o' yourself," replied the Master, "Now get out of here, I don't want no City Watchmen comin' in after you 'cos you didn't turn up to watch Selection."

The forge clanged with the sound of metal on metal and it echoed through the streets on his way home.

After he had cleaned up and made it to the town square, the show had already started and Winterfell's Selection had commenced. Gendry watched as a nervous looking boy gave the usual commencement speech before calling up a pretty girl who looked a few years younger than him. Though she was pretty she seemed dead behind her eyes but he supposed that was the look expected of someone being sent quite possibly to their death. The boy choked back tears as he called the second name which appeared to be the first girl's younger sister. Not as pretty as the older girl, this one walked up the stairs onto the podium a little clumsily in her dress and slippers. It was obvious that this was not her usual attire. Gendry found himself admiring her pixie-like qualities and how, unlike her sister, this girl was alive and animated; probably already planning her strategy in The Games. He actually laughed out loud when she bowed instead of executing a perfect curtsy as the ladies chosen were supposed to do. Gendry decided that when The Games started she would be the one he cheered for.

When Winterfell's ceremony was over the potential competitors were told to file out neatly from the courtyard and return at twilight for their selection. Gendry left with thoughts of the little pixie girl bowing in her long, blue-grey dress.

**Arya**

"I personally think we should ally with prince Joffrey" Sansa said haughtily, twirling a lock of hair around her finger and staring at Arya like she dared her to object.

Well, Arya did object, and she was going to make sure Sansa knew. "And why would we do that? What does he bring to the table? Not strength, look how skinny and weak he looks."

"He'll have a ton of benefactors; we'll always have food and be protected." Benefactors were wealthy sponsors outside of the games who buy items to send in to the competitor they're rooting for. Sometimes it's family, sometimes it's because they have a bet placed on that competitor and want to ensure they win. In any case, sending items into the arena is incredibly expensive so only the richest of the rich were able to afford it.

"Until he turns on us! He doesn't seem like the trustful type!"

"Yes, he does! He seems so kind, and handsome, and perfect! Besides, siding with the other nobles is the best strategy."

"I don't want to ally with the other nobles, they're snobby and self-absorbed and will betray us at the first opportunity they get," Sansa opened her mouth to argue this, so Arya decided a more reasonable approach, "They're not like us Sansa. They all want to be in these games; they think that it's fun, a chance to prove themselves. They don't care about the fact that they're killing other people; they just want to win."

Sansa's face went unnaturally pale, and she looked forward, as though focusing on something Arya couldn't see, "Well, maybe that's for the best."

"What?" Arya asked, because what in the name of the old gods was Sansa going on about?

"The nobles almost always win. Maybe that's a good strategy to have; it's what we should be doing."

"Yeah, right" Arya said, laughing, "Like you could kill anyone! You throw a hissy fit when you get mud on your clothes, what about when you get blood all over them?"

"Arya! Don't talk like that!"

"Why Sansa? Because it's not lady-like? We're not in a world of ladies and lords anymore. This is _real_! One of us is going to _die _and when you're dead no one's going to care if you curtseyed right before Joffrey cut your head off!"

"Girls stop your bickering!" Septa called from the front of the carriage "We've arrived in King's Landing"

"Welcome m'ladies" said the coachman, as he opened the door to the carriage they had been stuck in for what felt like forever.

Sansa acknowledged him with a polite nod before sweeping out of the carriage with her skirt trailing behind her. Arya, restless to stretch her legs, gathered her skirt in her arms and jumped out of the carriage, twirling around and enjoying the fresh air, belatedly remembering to shout "Thanks for the ride!" to the coachman, who was already getting back on the horse and trotting away. They were standing right outside the palace, where the contestants were housed until the games began. _Well_, she thought, _this is it, we're really going to be competing in the Winter Games._

"Come on girls, you need to meet your stylists and get made over for the parade tonight"

The parade was the first in a series of events that all the competitors were forced to attend and participate in. The parade, or the Opening Ceremony, as it was more formally referred to as, was a chance for everyone to check out the contestants and for each of the competitors to impress everyone with flamboyant costumes. The more eye-catching and creative the costume, the more respect you earned from the public. The theme of the costume was based off of which kingdom you came from. The contenders from Winterfell always had the worst costumes, bundled up in furs and think capes, to represent winter, but they ended up looking more like overstuffed birds. Each team was brought through the Town Square by horse-drawn carriages, and the ceremony was broadcasted throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa was paranoid about how she would look with her slim figure draped with thick furs in dark colours. Arya had spent the last few hours of the ride to King's Landing listening to her sister prattle on about her dream costume. Arya was just praying to the Gods that she didn't get a dress with ruffles on it. She hated ruffles. She felt a sharp nudge in her ribs and looked up to see Sansa gesturing with her head towards the castle gates.

"You know who's in there don't you?" she asked, signaling her sister to follow her towards them.

"The Baratheons?"

"Well done, point for you," Sansa replied sarcastically, "I mean _which_ Baratheon?"

"Gods Sansa you're not talking about Joffrey are you?"

"_Prince_ Joffrey and yes, I am. What do you think he'll be wearing for Opening?"

"He could wear a mummer's mask and it still wouldn't improve his ugly face."

"Arya!" Sansa gasped, horror-struck, "You mustn't speak of the Prince like that! He is next in line for the Iron Throne and is to rule all of the Seven Kingdoms!"

_Not if he doesn't make it out of the Games_ Arya thought but instead she just stuck her tongue out and walked a few paces ahead of her sister towards the looming castle.

**Jon**

The Wall was not what Jon had been expecting. After all the stories of adventure and brotherhood that his uncle Benjen had told him back in Winterfell, Jon had imagined a strong, united force; ready to defend against any attacks from the north. Instead, he was left to face the harsh conditions with a handful of untrained petty criminals selected from the finest dungeons in the kingdom. He almost wanted to be selected for the games. _Almost_. While most victors of the game were given eternal glory and 10,000 gold coins, if the victor was from the Wall then they were not only given the money and fame, but a free pass to return to their home. They were allowed to leave their life at the Wall and go anywhere they want, with an official pardon for any past crimes they had committed.

Jon had been trained for the Winter Games, just like the rest of the Stark children had, but as much as he missed his life at home, he didn't think he could take killing all those people to go back there, though he wouldn't turn down the chance to take a stab at _Prince_ Joffrey. No, even if- against all odds- he was selected for the games and won, he would never be accepted back home. Catelyn had made that perfectly clear when she had all but kicked him out of their castle.

Jon was currently wedged in between Pip and Sam, craning his neck to see Maester Aemon take a piece of parchment from the bowl onstage. "Samwell of the Night's Watch" echoed throughout the compound. They didn't use names last names when reading the selected at the Wall, as they were rid of those as they took the black. Jon looked over at Sam, wishing there was some way he could take his place, but those who were selected had to go. There was no way Sam would win, Jon knew this. He was too kind and unless he hid somewhere away from all the fighting until he was the last one left, he would most certainly die. _At least_, Jon thought, trying desperately to think of anything good in this situation, _Sam would get some fantastic meals out of it_. It was said that the selected ate better than anyone in the entire kingdom. Sam shook Maester Aemon's hand, his eyes wide with fear, and then it was time for the second representative to be selected.

"Jon of the Night's Watch" was shouted for all to hear.

Jon felt as though the cold, which he had finally gotten used to, was suddenly suffocating him. His blood had turned to ice and his limbs had frozen, making him unable to move. When he hadn't moved towards the stage after a minute, even though Pip kept nudging him, Ser Allister Thorne shouted "Where are ya, bastard?" This announcement snapped Jon out of his shock, and he walked to the stage, quickly shaking hands with the Maester and being hurried to the carriages.

Plans were already forming in his head, how to keep him and Sam safe, how to find food and survive, not picking fights, but not running from them either. He was a man of the Night's Watch, and they were trained in survival. He could do this, he could stay alive. To his disappointment, their mentor would be Ser Allister, as he was the most adept in fighting. Once settled in the carriage, Ser Allister turned on the miniature projector, so that they could scope out their competition. Jon was eager to see Winterfell's, because he'd get to see his family, as Rob was probably reading out the names this year. He watched as Rob pulled the first name out of the bowl, drinking in his brother's appearance: the stubble he'd grown since Jon had left, how much taller he'd gotten, and he'd let his hair grow out so that it curled past his ears. Then Sansa's name was called and Jon couldn't believe it. It had to be some kind of sick joke, but it wasn't. There was his younger sister, walking up on stage with the grace of a princess. He couldn't take his eyes off her, wishing once again that he could do something, but was distracted when the second name was called, "Arya Stark". It was then, when Jon saw his youngest sister, the feisty little girl whom he had taught how to hold a sword and work a bow and arrow, staring up at Rob in horror as she absorbed what she had just heard, it was then that Jon felt the tears falling down his face.

**Gendry**

They were called back to the courtyard at Twilight for the Flea Bottom selection. Gendry tried not to think too much about the fate that awaited him if he were unlucky enough to be called. He was standing next to a bunch of younger girls who were sobbing hysterically at the prospect of having to face up against sixteen challengers from different cities with skills ranging from subpar to the best of the best. Gendry's own training was somewhat decent having trained with the swords he'd been making from the time he was 14 but it was nowhere near the calibre of the noble competitors. For a moment, he found himself thinking about a particular girl who looked uncomfortable in her Selection clothes and who seemed to be lacking in the social graces typical of a noble lady. He wondered how she would fare being tossed out on her own and having to fend for herself and with this came a bout of sympathy for he too knew what fighting alone was like.

Before he could dwell on this for another moment, Lord Petyr Baelish had taken the stage and was urging the crowd to silence. Lord Baelish, or Littlefinger as he had come to be known amongst the people of the Seven Kingdoms, was not truly from Flea Bottom but it was customary for the most impoverished kingdom to have a higher ranking lord to select for them. It was supposed to show them what they could accomplish if they were to win The Winter Games.

"Quiet down everyone," Littlefinger said though at this point no one was talking, "The Flea Bottom Selection is about to begin." He gave a speech which had the adults and the eligible participants who had attended a Selection or two before nodding off. When it was over he rubbed his hands together, the sounds of his various rings clattered loudly rousing everyone from their daydreams and pinning their focus on the faded, black cauldron that was used to house their names. With a quick flash of teeth that looked more menacing than happy, Littlefinger dove his hand into the cauldron and there was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd. The courtyard was silent but for the crumple of parchment and the occasional clatter of gold on iron as a ring or two hit the edge of the pot. Finally after what felt like an eternity, Littlefinger's hand emerged clutched onto two names.

"Herm… oh dear… this is very um… how do you..?" Lord Baelish's usual collectedness had crumbled around him as he tried to read out the strange name in his hand. "You there!" he barked at a woman outside the crowd.

"M-me m'lord?" she looked shaken.

"Yes you. Do you know this boy?"

She took the paper from his hand gingerly and scrunched up her face trying to make out the letters. Finally she said: "Oh he doesn't go by that. He's known as Hot Pie 'round here."

"Hot Pie?" said Littlefinger, disbelieving.

"Yes m'lord he's a baker's son and he-"

"I don't need his life story," replied Littlefinger, holding up a hand to silence the woman, "You'll all be hearing that soon enough." He took his place on the podium and called this time for Hot Pie.

A chubby boy with dark curls of about 12 came bounding up the stairs only to trip and land at his feet in front of the Lord. After he had thanked Lord Littlefinger for the privilege of dying for his house (though admittedly not in those exact words) he waddled into his position on the right of the cauldron.

"And now without any further delays we have Flea Bottom's second competitor. Please show your support to…" he paused for dramatic effect, "Gendry Waters!"

Gendry was sure that if you were watching their Selection you could pinpoint the moment he felt his heart stop beating. He began the slow procession to the podium to take his place next to the other competitor. He looked over at the boy, _Hot Pie_, and was suddenly reminded of the girl from Winterfell. They were the same age right? It must be horrible to be that young and selected for the games; the youngest were always the weakest and first to die off. But the girl didn't seem weak, just small and slight. "Little Lady", he had dubbed her, having forgotten her name the moment it was said. He would have to watch out for this Little Lady for even though she looked useless he could tell she was strong and she was probably quick, and would make it far. Thinking of the twisted smile on Prince Joffrey's face when he was chosen, and the emotionless scarred giant, Gendry swallowed nervously. _Watch yourself Little Lady_, he thought, _There are some vicious beasts going into the arena, and you can't afford to be the human among the wolves._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**Ned**

He didn't know what was happening, but there was a plot brewing concerning the Winter Games. First Sansa, then Arya, and now Jon had been selected. While it was more common for nobility to be chosen, it was basically unknown for three children of the same family to be selected. He spurred his horse forward into a gallop, with the aim of arriving at King's Landing as soon as possible, Jory accompanying him. Cersei was planning something, and he had to find out what it was and warn Robert, the futures of his children were at stake.

**Arya**

Arya opened her eyes to a darkened room. Looking over, she saw Sansa was still fast asleep, softly breathing. To her other side was a window, where the sky was turning pink as the sun slowly started to rise. How early was it? Normally Arya was the late sleeper, having to be forcibly dragged out of bed by the Septa, but now she was too nervous to sleep. It was finally hitting her, she was in the Winter Games, and she probably wasn't going to come out alive.

It was fine, back when she didn't think there was chance in seven hells she would be selected, to entertain the possibility of being a victor, to say she wasn't worried, that she wouldn't mind being in the games. But now, now it was real, and she was either going to have to kill other kids, or be killed, and that was truly terrifying. Her stomach growled loudly, and she decided to calm her nerves by stuffing her face full of food. That usually worked. She crept over to the doors and slipped through them, and set off in search of the kitchens.

**Gendry**

He was an early riser; it was a habit of his from having to get up for working at the blacksmith before sunrise. There was nothing for him to do in the room, so he left Hot Pie snoring away and decided to wander the castle. He walked past the portraits of the past Baratheons, each of them with the signature raven hair that King Robert's children didn't seem to have inherited. _Ours is The Fury_ was painted on the wall above the portraits in sweeping letters. Gendry had always liked the Baratheon signature words the best of them all; they reminded him of his beloved bull helmet.

It upset him that he wasn't allowed to bring it into the games because the horns could be used as a weapon against someone else. Each of the selected was allowed to bring one token into the arena with them as a momentum, a reminder of what they were fighting to return to. He didn't think he would bring anything, as the bull helmet, which he had forged himself, using his wages to buy the metal to create it, was the only thing that had any real significance to him. He wandered through the halls, too absorbed by the tapestries and sigils adorning the walls that he didn't take any notice of which corridors he was turning down or where he was going, and only snapped back to reality when he felt himself bumping into something that was most definitely human.

**Arya**

She was lost. Completely and utterly lost. This castle had hundreds of twisty hallways and curving staircases that lead to who knows where. She'd been walking for fifteen minutes before realizing that she actually had no idea where she was going. Since then, she'd been wandering, trying to stumble upon either her room or the kitchen, because she was still quite hungry. She stomped her foot in frustration when she found herself looking up at a painting of Prince Tommen that she had passed not five minutes before. Deciding to try another route, she pivoted and quickly turned down another hallway only to crash into something-no _someone_- who had been heading right at her. Looking up, she saw a tall boy with inky black hair and an amused smile on his face.

"What?" she said, arms crossed, glaring up at him. She knew she was being rude, but she was annoyed with her lack of success and was still really hungry, plus she didn't need some boy laughing at her.

"You should watch yourself, Little Lady" he said, the wide smile still on his face and laughter in his tone.

"I'm _not_ a lady" she countered, tired of always being shoved into the same category as Sansa, the "proper lady". She herself was anything but.

"No? You sure seem like one."

When she made a move to whack his stomach with the back of her hand, he backed up and with his arms held out in a defensive stance, and quickly said "Whoa, definitely not a lady. More like…a wolf"

Arya smiled, despite her best efforts to look angry. Direwolves were the animal of the Stark family, and were prized above all other animals. Whether this boy knew it or not, he had just paid her an immense compliment. "And then what animal are you?"

"I don't know, little wolf, what do you think?" he asked with a grin, cocking his head to the side.

"Well, how should I know? I don't even know you!" she said, and then muttered under her breath, "Probably a stupid animal, like a cow or bull."

"Bull?" he said suddenly, startling Arya with his lightning quick reaction. "Did you say a bull?" he asked, searching her face for something unbeknownst to her.

"Yeah, bulls. We were always taught that bulls were brash and a bit stupid. Thought it suited…" she shrugged, giving him a little closemouthed smile to show she was joking.

He let out a long laugh, tilting back his head and closing his eyes.

"What?" she demanded, "What's so funny?"

Back home, Rob, Theon and Jon would always have their inside jokes, and never tell her what they found so hilarious. Even Jon, who would normally tell her everything, would just respond with the cryptic "you'll understand when you're older". Well, now he was at the Wall and she would never know, because women weren't allowed at the Wall, and Rob and Theon sure as hell wouldn't tell her all their secret jokes.

To her surprise, Gendry actually answered, "It's just, back in Flea Bottom, I was called _'The Bull'_, because I'm so tall and a bit, uh, muscly" he moved one of his arms in an awkward flimsy motion, in a half-hearted attempt to show his muscles. _Like they needed to be pointed out. _"And," he crouched down and whispered, "I have secret horns", putting his hands onto either side of his head and poking one finger on each hand out to make little horns. Arya felt herself laughing at his ridiculous impression of a bull; he was now scratching the floor with one of his feet and bucking his head, horns wiggling. She hadn't laughed like this in a while, not since Jon had left for the Wall.

"Do you by any chance know where the kitchen is?" she heard herself asking.

"Actually, yeah, I saw it on my way here. Want me to take you?" he said, straightening up out of his bull stance.

Not wanting to get lost again, she replied "Yeah, sure. I've been searching for it for what feels like forever"

"Too bad you didn't find me sooner; you could've saved a lot of time"

"My savior!" she replied mockingly, imitating Sansa's overly dramatic air as Gendry led her down some hallway.

"I prefer Gendry, actually."

"I'm Arya, Arya Stark of Winterfell."

"Nice to meet you Arya, Arya Stark of Winterfell"

"Oh shut it, it's how I'm supposed to introduce myself. It's the proper way!"

"Sure…ow!" he said as he was hit in the stomach by a tiny fist.

"Let's just find the kitchens okay?"

"Whatever you say, just don't hit me again."

**Arya**

She walked behind Gendry as he led her through the winding halls of the Red Keep. It was getting a little brighter out and Arya could see the red shafts of light streaming in through the elaborate glass windows. She glanced at the boy in front of her whom she had only just met but was allowing to lead her around this strange castle.

"Are you sure you know where you're going 'cos I'm pretty sure I've passed some of these spots…" she said, matching his stride to walk beside him.

"Settle down Little Lady I'll get you there," he smirked, looking down at her playfully. Arya responded with a sharp jab to his ribs.

"Seven Hells what was that for?" Gendry asked, clutching at the spot where he had been hit.

"Don't call me that!"

"Call you what?"

"Little Lady. I'm no lady, that's my sister."

"But 'aint you a Lord's daughter? That makes you a lady to me."

"I guess but… I don't… just don't call me that."

"As m'lady commands," he said, smirking again with a low bow that earned him another punch to the ribs.

"_Gendry_."

"Alright, alright I won't call you that. It must've been your fists of fury. You pack a mean punch for such a little la-" she lifted her hand again ready to strike and raised an eyebrow. _Go on, do it Bull _she thought_ I dare you_.

"I didn't say it!" he replied with a chuckle, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

"Can we just get to the kitchens?"

She couldn't be sure but she though she heard Gendry whisper another _As m'lady commands _under his breath.

**Gendry**

They rounded another corner before he finally recognized the large portrait of a fat Baratheon lord feasting in the great hall of a castle that he supposed had long since been destroyed.

"Here you go Arya Stark, the kitchens of the Red Keep," he made a grand flourish towards the door and bowed his head as his mother taught him to do in the presence of the high-born.

"Oh shut up," she said, laughing a little and pressing her ear up against the door. She had a nice laugh. It wasn't too loud or obnoxious it was just… nice.

"Do you think there's anyone inside?"

"Shhh! That's what I'm trying to figure out," she whispered.

"Aren't you a la- I mean can't you just walk in and demand some food? No matter who's in there, they'll give it to a girl like you."

"But it's more fun if we get it on our own. I don't think anyone's inside. I'm going to have a look."

"Let me go ahead, you don't know who's in there it could be dangerous."

"It's a kitchen stupid. The worst thing that's in there is yesterday's pheasant. Wait out here 'til I come get you."

He watched her open the door slightly and slide her thin frame through the crack. At first there was silence until the clatter of falling pots and pans echoed through the empty hallways accompanied by a very loud "Seven Hells" and after a few more moments a disheveled Arya emerged quickly clutching a small basket.

**Arya**

Everything was going swimmingly until the cook showed up. Arya entered the kitchens intending on taking as much as she could carry to impress her older counterpart but her visit had been rather short-lived. After leaving Gendry alone on lookout in the hallway she had stealthily crept inside the large, seemingly empty Baratheon kitchens. They really were a sight. Nothing like the kitchens back home in Winterfell. Where the Winterfell kitchens were grey stone and iron, the kitchens of The Red Keep were white marble and coloured tiles. There were fresh muffins and cakes on cooling racks near the stoves and in one of the ovens was a pig probably being roasted for Cersei Lannister's breakfast.

Craning her head to look at the entirety of the room, she noticed a basket by the door that looked as if it would be used by one of the kitchen staff to run small errands back and forth from the marketplace or around the castle. With her theft experience having been honed from years of pinching lemon cakes and other things from her older sister Arya deftly snatched the basket without disturbing any of the surrounding objects and went about filling it with various baked goods and a few apples which she found strewn about on the counter. She picked up a bright red apple. She imagined the look on Gendry's face when she came strolling out nonchalantly, her basket filled with piles of food. He would no doubt be in awe of her abilities to take things for herself. Maybe he'd even cheer for her when The Games started. It could always be of use to have someone on the outside potentially persuading the wealthy population to become her benefactor. She was so focused on how Gendry could help her that when she went to toss the apple gently into her basket, she overshot it completely and hit a shelf of pots and pans that were stacked precariously one on top of the other. They crashed to the ground with the deafening clang of twelve heavy cast iron pots hitting each other at the same time. The loud noise shocked Arya so much that she dropped her basket, and half its contents, before letting out a frustrated "Seven Hells!" at her own clumsiness.

"Hey you! Girl!"

Arya looked up just in time to see one of the cooks charging towards her, rolling pin in hand, and a look on his face that dared her to try to run. So she did. She swooped down at lightning speed and snatched up her basket just before a rolling pin was chucked into the space where her head had just been. There was a beat before Arya was running out the door clutching her prize and had grabbed Gendry by the sleeve to pull him out of the castle and into the sunlit courtyard.

By the time they got there, they were both panting and exhausted. Gendry was lying on the ground looking up at the sky and Arya was next to him, the basket in the middle. When they had finally caught their breath Arya sat up and told him about how she had narrowly escaped a crazy cook but this version had him wielding a newly sharpened knife instead of a rolling pin. She was surprised when he burst out laughing at the end as he'd been listening with such rapt attention.

"What's so funny?" she questioned.

"It's just…" he laughed, looking up at her and shielding his eyes from the sun, "For a respectable lady- and don't hit me for saying it- you're the source of so much trouble."

"Well at least I got us food," she said with a huff "That's more than I can say for you."

"Well excuse me!" he replied, sitting up "I offered to help but _someone_ thought I'd be more useful for guard duty."

Arya shrugged, "You didn't have to listen to me, I'm just a _little lady_ remember?"

Gendry laughed again, "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

Not knowing how to respond to this, Arya reached into their basket of food, pulled out a muffin and tore off a chunk which she promptly threw at him. She laughed a little when she saw that the fruit inside had left a sticky, red spot right on his tunic

"Oh that's it, now you're going to get it," Gendry said, following suit and lunging for a muffin. He managed to get in two good hits before she countered with a lemon cake straight to the face. Though the cake itself was small, the heavy icing had coated the older boy's nose and just above his mouth so his blue eyes stood out amidst a sea of cream frosting. It was the surprised expression on his face that really made her double over, laughing so hard she thought she was going to pass out. He took full advantage of her laughter and pinned her to the ground with one hand and repeated her lemon cake gesture with another. They continued their fight for a few more minutes until they noticed that the only ammunition they had left was the one apple that had caused Arya's trouble in the first place. She grabbed it and took a bite, savouring the crisp taste of the fruit.

"Well that's not fair, what am I going to eat?" Gendry asked, shaking some muffin bits out of his dark hair.

"Not my problem," Arya smiled sweetly, "Shouldn't have thrown so much food." She herself was covered in frosting and fruit chunks and was feeling generally sticky.

"Fine then," he said reaching over and wiping some icing off her nose with his finger and then tasting it, "Delicious!" he proclaimed, smiled at her.

"Ugh Gendry that's disgusting," she said but she laughed anyways and took another bite of her apple.

"Not as disgusting as what we'll be eating in the arena"

"Yeah, that's tr-wait, what?"

"You've seen the 'food' they supply in The Games," he said, making these little quotation marks with his fingers which Arya would've found endearing if she wasn't so focused on what he was saying, "Definitely not food fit for a noble, not even fit for a beggar. It's scary to think we'll be in there in less than a month. Tonight's the parade, tomorrow's the interview, then a week of training and then a day for assessment and scoring. Next day, we're in there."

"You-you're in The Games? The Winter Games?"

"Yes…" he replied slowly, his brow furrowing with confusion, "And you are too. I didn't just imagine your Selection, did I?"

"N-no" was all she could manage as a reply, still trying to absorb that she was going to be competing against this boy, who had just swiped icing off her nose. Only one, or neither of them, were coming out alive. Just then, the bell echoed through the castle walls eight times over. Realizing that Sansa was probably waking up now, Arya seized this chance and made her exit.

"I have to go… makeovers", was all she said as explanation and he just smiled at her and waved as she walked as fast as she could away from this newly discovered competition.

On the way back to her room, all Arya could think was _What if it was all fake? What if he was only trying to befriend me so that he could gain my trust and kill me faster later on? _She decided to stay away from any of the others, because she couldn't trust anyone, except for Sansa.

She finally found her room, and she opened the door to the sight of Septa standing in the centre of it with her arms crossed, a frighteningly stern and disappointed expression on her face, and staring out the window as though she thought Arya was going to climb in through it. Arya wondered if she could still try to run away, but this idea was shattered when Septa turned and spotted her.

"Arya! Where have you been? You're a mess! This will take at least an hour to scrub off!"

"I was hungry," she feebly replied with a shrug of her shoulders

"Oh Gods, why me? Come with me, hurry now, Sansa's already there, and let's pray to the old gods and the new that you'll be ready for the parade tonight. It's time for makeovers." She said in a flurry before hurrying Arya out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sansa**

Sansa was feeling wired at the prospect of makeovers. Hair, makeup and wardrobe choices were her favourite part of the day. She was led by Septa Mordane down a marble corridor and past at least two dozen rooms before they finally stopped at a cold, grey door with "Sansa Stark- Winterfell" marked on it in letters of mother of pearl. Prompted by the Septa who was not allowed inside with her, she pushed gently on the door only to reveal a raven haired woman whom Sansa had never seen before.

"Lady Sansa?" the woman asked and Sansa nodded noting the faint traces of an eastern accent on her tongue, "My name is Shae and I will be styling you for the Opening Ceremonies and the Interview."

Sansa gave her stylist a quick look up and down. She was dressed in a pale pink gown that had diamonds lining the bodice and had a matching necklace at her throat. Seeing Shae's well-coordinated outfit sent relief flooding through Sansa who was no longer worried about being styled poorly or having a botched makeover job.

"If you'd like to follow me, I have drawn you a bath so you can wash before the rest of your styling," Shae said kindly, leading Sansa by the arm into a gleaming tiled bathroom where they were both engulfed by the rising steam.

After her bath Shae swaddled her in a linen dressing gown and escorted her to the vanity table where she started to brush out her long ginger hair, still damp from the water.

"Have you ever styled for The Games before?" Sansa asked in means of polite conversation.

"Never," Shae admitted, "It's my first time."

"Then how did you manage to become employed by His Grace? I don't mean to sound questioning it's just…" she didn't know how to finish properly which was a first for her. Normally years of experience were needed to become a stylist in The Games. There were endless hair, makeup and wardrobe tricks that had to be executed seamlessly in order to achieve a look that was equally beautiful from all angles of the Alchemist's Birds. Having a first time stylist was rare. Sansa had only heard of one other in the past and they had done such a horrible job at making over their competitor that they hadn't received any benefactors and were among the first to die.

"Not too long ago I was a lady-in-waiting to a princess. One day she arrived at court dressed and styled by my hand and when Lord Tyrion saw her he recommended to his sister, I mean, Her Grace who promptly requested my presence as stylist for The Games."

"Lord Tyrion?"

Lord Tyrion Lannister was Cersei's youngest brother. He was known everywhere as the Imp due to his miniscule height. He was famous for being the official interviewer of the games, where the contestants would get to show the world their personality and attempt to impress them.

"Yes, m'lady. Lord Tyrion." Shae said with a certain air of fondness, a wistful smile on her face. Sansa wondered just how close her stylist was to the brother of the queen.

Once Sansa's hair had been coiffed into an elaborate braid fitting of a Lady of the South, Shae left to fetch the cosmetic paint. Sansa was examining herself in the mirror, waiting for her stylist's reappearance. It was at least five minutes later when she saw the door open through the reflection.

"Finally!" she said, rolling her eyes "I thought you had die-", she stopped abruptly when she noticed that it wasn't Shae who had entered, but The Queen. "Your Grace" she said, getting up and executing a curtsey towards Cersei, who had perched herself on one of the spare chairs in the corner of the room.

"Hello Sansa," Cersei said, smiling, her voice warm "You look so beautiful, like a bird."

"Thank you, Your Grace" she replied, waiting for Cersei to initiate conversation, unsure of why The Queen had decided to come to her room.

"And so polite, you'd be a fitting princess to our Joffrey."

"B-but that's not possible, with The Games."

"The Games don't really matter, little dove. If I want you to be my Joff's wife, you will be his wife." she said with a reassuring, toothy smile.

Sansa was still incredibly confused with this conversation and said, not trying to sound daft: "But The Games… only one emerges alive, and…and chances are it isn't going to be me."

"Oh little dove, how young you are! How naïve! I am The Queen. Do you think, if I wanted you to come out alive, anyone would object? No, they certainly would not."

"Then why have I been entered in The Winter Games?"

Cersei got up and went over to Sansa, putting an arm around her and said; "Think of it as a test, a way for the royal court to be able to see you, to see how you act and react. Make the right choices, and you will not only be able to emerge from the arena with your life, but with a crown. You liked Joffrey when we visited Winterfell, did you not? Stay with him in The Games, and I promise, you'll be safe from any harm. Conduct yourself as a princess would, and you will be able to marry him"

Just then, Shae came back into the room, panting. "M'lady, I'm so sorry! I forgot one of the brushes and had to double back. Your Grace!" she quickly added, noticing Cersei for the first time, and curtsying towards her. "Would you like anything?"

"No, I'm fine. Sansa and I were just having a little chat." With that, she left the room, and Shae got to work painting Sansa's face for the parade.

**Renly**

"No rainbows who does she think she is," Renly muttered to himself, pacing back and forth on the crimson carpet that adorned Joffrey's dressing room. He had styled for The Games before but this was the first dressing room he had seen done in such an elaborate style. Red and gold accents were placed throughout the midsized room and the window was one of stained glass, representing the sigil of House Lannister. Even the clock above the door had hands of gold. Renly glanced at it and huffed impatiently. His nephew was already an hour late. He wouldn't say anything to Cersei though. Not if he wanted Loras to have a fighting chance. Since the argument he'd had with her he had found himself increasingly busy with tasks for The Games that he didn't even know existed. He hadn't had a single moment to see how everything was going with Loras not to mention a moment to himself. The Games were eating him alive and it was really taking a toll on his physique. His eyes, once bright Baratheon-blue were now dulled and he had dark circles under them due to his lack of sleep.

The door was pulled open suddenly, slamming against the stone walls. In walked Joffrey Baratheon, looking as if he had not a care in the world. And why would he? Everyone in Westeros knew that he was the sure winner of The Games this year. Nobles were often entered in fixed games so that when they won, they would look as if they had bested the Seven Kingdoms with their strength and cunning when really they had just paid a thousand gold coins or so to keep them from harm's way. Still Renly sank into a low bow at the entrance of his nephew. No need to stir up extra trouble from Cersei for refusing to bow to her son.

"Uncle," Joffrey said curtly in way of addressing his stylist.

"Prince Joffrey,"

"Let me make myself _very_ clear," he said, not bothering with polite small talk, "When I'm in the parade, I want people to think The Warrior himself has come down from the heavens"

_More like The Maid_ Renly thought but instead he merely said "Yes Your Grace"

Joffrey strode purposefully to the waiting armchair where his hair and makeup would be styled and applied. "Well?" he demanded when Renly was not immediately at his side. _The Seven Give me strength _he thought as he grabbed his styling tools and went to stand next to his nephew. Renly started the whole process by running a brush through Joffrey's hair which was, unlike his own, a mop of spun gold.

"That Stark girl won't know what hit her," he said smugly "Mother says we're to be married. After The Games of course, wouldn't want to cause a stir. Mother's probably talking to her now about this whole thing. What's her name again?"

"Sansa, Your Grace. You visited Winterfell not long ago do you really not remember her? Supposedly she's quite charming."

"That is not the way to speak to a prince Uncle," Joffrey said jerking his head away from the brush to stare into Renly's eyes for added intensity. _Oh I'm so scared_ Renly thought _What are you going to do, hit me? You wouldn't dare get your spoiled hands dirty_. All too soon, Joffrey had forgotten this indecency and was back to "That Stark girl".

"Sansa…" he said as if savouring the name on his tongue, "Yes, Sweet Sansa. Did you get a good look at her Uncle? More than just a pretty face on that one, if you know what I mean. Or perhaps you don't. Mother says that you've developed a liking for another competitor. Tell me Uncle, will you weep for Ser Loras when I kill him for all to see?" Joffrey smiled menacingly. Renly felt his breath hitch in his throat. It was all he could do to keep from smashing the boy's head in with the heavy gold brush in his hand. Tears stung in the back of his eyes but whether they were a reaction of his physical exhaustion or something else entirely was yet to be determined.

One thing he was sure of though; he would do everything in his power to make sure that Joffrey did not make it out of The Games. For the benefit of the Seven Kingdoms and his own emotional well-being, Renly thought that the world could not stand to have a malicious boy like his nephew in charge of it.

"You have not answered my question yet dear Uncle," said Joffrey, his voice burned in Renly's ears, "Will you weep for him?"

"Yes Your Grace I will." _But they will be tears of joy when Loras sticks a knife through your throat._

**Arya**

"Hello?" Arya called to the empty room which Septa had all but pushed her into. She looked around, as though her stylist had hidden behind one of the numerous marble archways in the large room. Out of the shadows came a man with black curly hair who walked with the elegance of a dancer, and the swiftness of a cat.

"You are late" he said, in a thick Braavos accent. Arya immediately recognized him as Syrio Forell, one of the most famous stylists of all time, though he usually styled for Braavos. She wondered why he was suddenly placed on Winterfell.

As if reading her mind, he said "Your father aided me once, and when I heard his daughter was entered, I knew it was my duty, my destiny, to style her. To style you. Now," he commanded with a flick of his hand, "Turn to the side." She did, and he observed her for a moment before saying "You are skinny, that is good. You will be a smaller target in the arena, and also not seen as much of a threat. People will underestimate you; think of you as merely a highborn child."

At this, Arya's face darkened, because she was sick of people thinking of her as only a weakling, a lady. Syrio seemed to understand, because he said "Ah ah ah, you don't want this, do you? You want them all to know what you, Arya Stark of Winterfell, are capable of, yes?"

"Yes. I want them to know that I am strong, and that I will win"

"And win you will. You have a spirit Arya Stark, one not unlike a wolf. You will do well in this competition."

Arya's face fell for the slightest of moments. Sure the prospect of winning was great but how could she walk away from the arena knowing that her sister was dead inside. How could she face her parents? Would she end up being the one to kill Sansa? Her stomach churned at the thought. She felt her mind wander to the courtyard of King's Landing where an older boy had pelted her with baked goods. Arya wondered about Gendry's family and how they would react to the news of their son's death if he did end up dying. She wondered if he even had family at all. He hadn't said anything about them though Arya recalled mentioning her father a few times in their conversation when they had been trying to locate the kitchens. _No_ Arya though sternly, as if scolding herself from within _He's just using me. He's only being nice to me because he wants to kill me_. Her last thought had a lump rising in her throat and she swallowed hard. She looked up at Syrio who seemed perfectly content to leave her alone with her thoughts.

"Aren't we going to get started?" Arya asked cautiously, not wanting to offend.

"Are you done thinking?" he countered but it didn't seem spiteful or demanding.

"Sorry," she said looking at the ground, "I've just got a lot on my plate."

Syrio laughed loudly, "Why of course you do! Look at you Arya Stark, you're in a competition for your life!"

"I don't need the reminder."

"Apologies if I have given offence, it was not intentional I assure you."

"Can we just get this over with?" she asked with a sigh, "The sooner the better." She walked to the chair sitting by a large mirror and sat down scrutinizing her features. Syrio came up behind her though she had not seen him move.

"You will be remembered Arya Stark. We have the power to mold the public's view of you, and we want to make an impression. You will be known throughout The Seven Kingdoms Wolf Girl, and we'll make sure no one forgets you."


End file.
